It was a Friday,  late afternoon.  I’d struck out signing up to get a tax transcript online for my eventual appeal of NY State of Health Marketplace’s mistake, which is currently costing me $220 a month.  “Incorrect phone number” the moronic IRS robot told me before shutting down the session for the fourth time.  I finally gave up and went out for a walk.

Heading up crowded Sixth Avenue in a foul mood it didn’t escape my notice that everyone was out of step.  Three or four across, staring at tiny screens, stopping suddenly, veering, lurching.  After a half mile of this I burst around a small crowd of lollygaggers, hit my foot on an uncommonly high curb cut, and fell loudly on to the sidewalk, on to my palms.   The sudden loud noise was exacerbated by my heavy coat, which I’d been carrying, slamming loudly next to me, books and metal phone chargers slapping the ground.

I was surprised, and embarrassed, but otherwise unhurt.  I saw the feet and legs of people who’d stopped to help.  “I’m OK, I just tripped, I’m fine,” I said calmly as I started to stand.  The woman who’d begun to scream as I went down kept screaming.  “I’m not hurt, I’m all right,” I continued, as the woman continued to scream. 

She screamed like a woman in a horror movie, screamed for all she was worth.  At the time I was thinking “what an asshole…” but now, a week or two later, I realize she was screaming for all of us.